Blackened
by Tziluthi
Summary: The story of a Blake, a man caught in the Raccoon City Epidemic. Please R&R.


Chattering voices on the edge of Blake's awareness gently lifted his mind into consciousness. It was the radio, having switched on at 5:30 in the morning, the time Blake had set for it. His eyes opened slowly as the rest of him enjoyed the brief moment of calm. He fixed his blurry sight on the radio's digital clock, eventually reading the time as 5:35.  
  
'Up, now, you lazy bum,' he thought to himself as he willed his body to leave the warm bedspread for the cold, but short walk to the toilet. He relieved himself and then wandered into the shower, where he treated himself to fifteen minutes of warm water. He dried himself off, took a couple of minutes to shave, and then walked back into his bedroom, detouring through the kitchen so he could switch on the kettle.  
  
Towel clad, he grabbed his watch off the bedside table. 5:58. He strapped the watch around his wrist and walked over to his wardrobe, opening the door and pulling out a white shirt and a pair of black slacks. He put them on, along with a belt and a white undershirt, and then sat down on his bed to put on his boots. Starting when he heard muffled voices in the room, Blake realised that it was the radio. He leaned over and turned the volume up so he could listen to the newscast. A cold sweat swept over him when he heard what the radio had to say.  
  
"A wave of violence has overtaken Raccoon city overnight, with rioters killing and, some reports say, cannibalizing residents," there was a pause in the report as the DJ stopped for breath. Apparently he had been going at this for a while.  
  
"For those of you who have just joined us, residents of Raccoon City have begun rioting following the appearance of a new illness. The police advise that residents avoid the rioters at all costs, but also try to make their way to a nearby police station. If that is not possible, stay indoors and do not allow anyone inside your home, especially if he or she exhibits signs of severe illness."  
  
Blake, having ignored his boots while he was listening, quickly laced the black 8-holes up.  
  
'Call Alex. Check on the kids,' Blake thought.  
  
He walked over to the phone and picked up the handset, but the line was dead. He raced over to the bedside table and checked his mobile phone, but that wasn't in service either.  
  
"Fuck," he muttered in frustration.  
  
Without much thought, he ran to the front door. It was locked. He raced back into his bedroom to get his keys, but caught himself.  
  
"Listen, you idiot," he said, out loud, to himself. "If there's a fucking violent mob out there, then you won't do much fucking good to anyone as you are. Calm the fuck down and think this through. You want to be prepared for this."  
  
After giving himself a moment to collect his thoughts, he grabbed a leather jacket and a backpack out of his closet and pulled his old, largely unused shotgun down from the top shelf, along with a box of shells. He grabbed his keys, his wallet and his sunglasses from the bedside table and then walked quickly out to the kitchen.  
  
There, Blake ate and drank a breakfast's worth of energy bars and milk, and then grabbed two sports bottles, one of which he filled with coke and the other with water. He threw those, along with two bags of assorted candy-bars, two more of dried fruit, and last, the box of shells, into the backpack.  
  
He checked his watch just as he was leaving the apartment. 6:11.  
  
'Oh god let the children be alright,' Blake silently prayed.  
  
He closed the door and locked it behind him, scanning the hallway. The lights were on, even this early. Not unusual, but most of the time, at least a few people were already out of bed to go for a jog. Maybe it was the riots that were keeping them indoors.  
  
'May as well go straight to the garage. It won't do any good for anyone to see me here with this shotgun.'  
  
Blake proceeded straight for the elevator. He pressed the 'call' button and waited. Half a minute passed and the floor indicator stayed at one. He jabbed at the button a few more times as he glared up at the LED display, but there was no change. He looked over at the stairwell door. There were 11 stories worth of stairs between him and the basement. He sighed in resignation and ran over to the door, opened it and ran down the stairs.  
  
Almost down to the parking garage, Blake stopped at the first floor, tempted to see what the hold-up was with the elevator. Curiosity won out, and he pulled the stairwell exit open. When he rounded the corner, Blake nearly gagged. 


End file.
